


Catharsis

by ashestodusters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Character Study, Dodgy Author Research, Gen, Injury Recovery, Post-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Sherlock Has Issues, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Spoilers, Tattoos, The Author Knows Nothing About Tattoo Proceedures, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9424865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashestodusters/pseuds/ashestodusters
Summary: It had been two months, seventeen days, five hours, and forty-nine minutes since Sherlock was rescued from Serbia when he first had the idea.Sherlock copes with the trauma from his two years away in a surprising way.Set post TEH but a bit AU from there.





	

It had been two months, seventeen days, five hours, and forty-nine minutes since Sherlock was rescued from Serbia when he first had the idea.

It had been one of his ‘bad days’, days of tension, paranoia, constantly feeling on edge, jumping at the smallest of sounds. The small amount of sleep he had managed to get had been filled with nightmarish flashbacks of angry shouts, cold, and suffering. His scars throbbed in vividly remembered pain.

Sherlock hated these days, these signs of weakness. At the same time he was grateful, grateful for the support of his friends. Unbidden, John rose to his mind but he quickly banished the mental image. John hadn’t forgiven him yet and was barely cordial in conversation. Sherlock had no idea if John knew what he had been through during the past two years. If he didn’t, perhaps it was for the best, if he did, then clearly Sherlock’s suffering was not enough to make up for the pain he had cause his flatmate.

Shaking himself, Sherlock tried to turn his thoughts away from that train, his therapist, the one he had ensured no one but Mycroft knew about, didn’t like it when he turned to self-blame.

Instead, he thought about Mrs. Hudson who made him tea and wrapped him firmly in her hand-made weighted blanket, knowing the comforting warmth helped sooth the aches and pains of old injuries, her hand soothingly stroking his unruly curls.

Splashing water on his face with trembling fingers he gripped the sink edge and gazed at his reflection. A broken man stared back, tired, worn, bedraggled, purple smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes, defeated posture, red-rimmed eyes.

Choking back a sob as another memory flashed suddenly, the phantom whip digging into his back. Sherlock fell back on the coping techniques recommended by his therapist. Taking deep measured breaths he forced himself to focus on mentally reciting chemical formulae and did his best not to remember the pattern of scars on his back.

Perhaps it was a result of his exhaustion that the thought occurred to him. Sherlock, despite his general disregard for his body, had never been keen on leaving permanent marks. Now the choice had been taken from him. So why not replace the ugly marks with something more positive, something _his_?

Before he could change his mind Sherlock fumbled for his phone, googled for a suitable nearby establishment and booked the soonest possible appointment.

*

Two days later Sherlock stood outside the inconspicuous little shop trying to convince himself the take the final few steps. It was not the sort of establishment that Sherlock would usually feel comfortable in, but during his sleep deprived internet search he had to grudgingly admit he had chosen well. The shop was small, tasteful and well-regarded, run by someone who truly cared about their customers.

Before he could change his mind Sherlock, taking several deep breaths to prepare himself, stepped over the threshold, clenching his gloved hands to hide their shaking. The gentle ringing of the bell alerting the woman sat at the desk to his arrival, drawing her attention away from the notebook she was sketching in.

“Sherlock Holmes I presume?” Her query was gentle, polite.

“Yes,” he replied simply, not trusting his voice to remain steady.

Inside the shop was pleasantly warm compared to the brisk nip of winter outside and the music was surprisingly tame and quiet. The décor was gentle too, pictures of previous designs hung on the walls for inspiration. The gentle hum and buzz of machinery filled the air. At her gesture, he followed her through to her office and settled on the chair opposite her.

“Nice to meet you,” Sherlock shook the offered hand, “I’m Danni, the owner. How can I help you?” Piercing green eyes met his own and Sherlock was thrown by the intensity of the gaze. Danni was not a typical tattoo artist, which Sherlock found reassuring. A quick glance confirmed his assumption, her own tattoos were few and subtle, only visible because of her rolled-up sleeves, her ears were pierced in the conventional way but that was all.

Maybe he should make more life decisions when sleep deprived.

“I’d like to get a tattoo,” Sherlock began hesitantly, “to cover some… unpleasant reminders.” Danni held his gaze for a moment before nodding thoughtfully, clearly understanding his intent.

“Ok, are we looking at covering scarring or something else?” Sherlock was startled slightly by her bluntness but he should have expected it. Her website reviews had said as much, a specialist in tattooing scarring, not shy about discussing them, just the right balance of sensitivity and professionalism, never pitied.

“Erm… scarring, across my back.” A raised eyebrow was her only reaction.

“Are we looking at a large area?”

“I suppose,” he murmured, feeling anxiety rising as he forced himself to recall the pattern, “the worst covers the gap between my shoulder blades, about fifteen centimetres top to bottom.”

“Any ideas about the design?” A pencil and sketchbook suddenly appeared in her hands, the change of topic welcome.

“Chemical structures,” he replied after a moment of thought, it only seemed fitting considering he already associated them with overcoming his dark thoughts. Danni hummed in consideration, scribbling something down.

“Anything else?” Sherlock froze, nothing immediately came to mind. Seeming to sense his struggle Danni laughed gently and reassured him.

“No rush Mr. Holmes, I want to ensure that you get something you’ll keep and appreciate, it’s why I have several appointments with each client before inking.”

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed, relaxing slightly, “my apologies.”

“Nervous?” The question held no judgement and Sherlock felt himself nod. “That’s ok, a lot of people are with their first. How about we just discuss some of your interests, and work from there?”

The rest of the half hour appointment passed quickly. Sherlock found himself relaxing more and more as Danni directed the conversation toward his passions. They discussed his violin and love of music, his fascination with bees, his background in chemistry and he even found himself quietly admitting his love of dancing and art. Throughout Danni had been scrawling notes and sketching preliminary ideas, chemical structure featured prominently, with Sherlock drawing some out to ensure accuracy.

“Which chemicals would you prefer?” Danni had asked. Sherlock considered it seriously.

“Serotonin, dopamine, and maybe adrenaline.” Taking the pencil he fluidly sketched the structures out, subconsciously adding in the elements that made the chemicals up.

Serotonin, ‘happiness’, the feeling of his return, alive, of Lestrade’s embrace, Mycroft’s voice, Molly’s smile, Mrs. Hudson’s affectionate pottering.

Dopamine, a fitting opposite to Serotonin, the way his body had coped with pain, an acknowledgement of his addictive behaviour and a reminder not to return to it no matter how hard things got.

Adrenaline, to represent the thrill of the chase, and _John_.

Finally, with the session drawing to a close and several pages full of notes and ideas Danni returned the discussion to less comfortable areas.

“I’m afraid I have to ask to make sure that tattooing is safe,” she explained softly before dropping the bombshell, “how old are the scars?”

Flashes of Serbian, the broken pipe.

“Two and a half months.” Sherlock croaked, trying to focus on the office. _You’re not in Serbia, you’re safe._

“Ok,” Danni replied making another note, “typically, it is best to tattoo over scars once they have healed and matured which is usually around twelve months after the injuries were received. To be safe, I’d like to wait until then, would that be alright?”

Sherlock frowned. He had hoped that there wouldn’t be a wait, but at the same time respected that in this area he lacked the knowledge to make the decision.

“If you think best,” he mumbled in agreement.

“It might be possible to do it sooner, but I’d have to examine them. Are you comfortable with me carrying out a visual check in a future appointment?” At this Sherlock felt his breath catch, the thought of a stranger seeing the mess on his back throwing him headlong into anxiety.

“Sherlock?” Danni’s voice broke through his panic.

“I… I don’t…” Sherlock hesitated, forced himself to examine the situation logically. Danni was a professional who had undoubtedly seen many scars in her line of work. She was unlikely to be disgusted, or to offer unwanted sympathy. Logically, there was no reason for him to feel uncomfortable.

“Alright,” Danni said calmingly, “you don’t have to answer now.”

“Yes,” Sherlock blurted, resolving to speak to his therapist about this unexpected panic, “it’s… that’s… it’s fine.” Danni looked unconvinced but nodded nevertheless.

“If you’re sure.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied much more confidently getting his breathing back under control. Shutting the sketchbook Danni glanced at the clock and gave him an apologetic smile.

“It would seem our time is up. Would you like to book in your next appointment now?”

With a date the following month agreed upon Sherlock left the tattoo parlour feeling much more confident than he had entering it.

*

The following two appointments were just as productive. They further discussed his interests, poured over design ideas, their combined input beginning to shape a number of ideas for the final tattoo.

The only blip in proceedings had been when Danni had checked the scarring. Sherlock had been doing fine, removing his shirt and sitting on the tattoo table with only the smallest anxiety issues. The visual inspection had been fine, but when Danni’s gloved fingers had brushed across his back Sherlock had been jerked into a panic attack. When he came back to awareness it was to Danni offering a cup of tea to his form curled defensively in the corner of the room.

Embarrassed and alarmed at his reaction they had eventually found that as long as Danni explained where and how she was going to touch him he was able to keep himself rooted in the present, which also enabled Danni to work out how to draw the tattoo on his back without him moving involuntarily.

The other good thing to come out of that appointment was Danni’s assessment that his scars had healed quicker than she had expected and that the tattoo could actually be done at his next appointment if he wished.

*

Having escaped John’s suspicious questioning, he was still relieved that John seemed to have finally forgiven him, Sherlock traced the now familiar route to Danni’s parlour, five months after his initial appointment.

Today was the day.

He hadn’t told anyone where he had been disappearing to, although he imagined that Mycroft suspected his intent and his therapist knew of course, had even encouraged him, much to Sherlock’s own surprise.

Settling down in the office, they looked over the final ideas. The designs were all beautiful in their own way, but none had quite struck him as right, as _the one_. Danni didn’t seem concerned and with a knowing smile Danni turned the final page and Sherlock’s breath caught.

It was perfect.

“I thought you might like this one,” Danni murmured softly as his eyes flew over the sketch, “the design came to me last night and it felt much more natural, much more _you_ than the others.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered reverently, “this. I would like this.”

Flipping the sketchbook back around to face her, Danni examined the drawing for a long moment.

“Are there any adjustments you would like to make?” Sherlock paused, realising suddenly that he did want something else added.

“Would you be able to add some names?”

“Names?” Danni asked with a slight frown, “that depends. I don’t tend to tattoo names because two years later they tend to be back to have them removed. That being said,” she added catching his disparaging look, “I have a feeling that you won’t be facing that problem.”

Sherlock took the pencil and wrote down the names quickly and assuredly. Initial and surname so they would fit nicely. Danni glanced over them and a small smile graced her lips.

“Of course, I should have known.”

With the design decided upon, Sherlock agreed to wait whilst Danni efficiently reproduced the image on a transfer, his excitement battling with worry as Danni finished up.

Danni led him into the familiar back room and in no time at all he was laid face down on the comfortable table shirtless as Danni sorted the inks. Sherlock was suddenly filled with nerves. It was ridiculous of course, Danni had already seen his scarred mess of a back when she had checked to ensure it would be safe to ink, but being faced with the reality that today he would permanently mark his skin he found the rising anxiety hard to ignore.

Seeming to notice his unease, Danni paused in her preparations, turning to pull the curtain separating the room from the main shop firmly closed.

“Sherlock?” Her voice was soft and questioning, “last minute nerves?”

“Yeah,” he breathed trying to calm his jittering, “I want this, I really do, I’m just overthinking it.” Resuming her preparations Danni settled down into the chair beside him, hands gloved and tattoo gun held comfortably as she peeled the transfer off his back, checking to ensure the lines had all transferred well.

“Talk me through what led you here,” she said suddenly as she felt him tense at the sound of the tattoo gun turning on.

“Why?” he asked.

“To stop you overthinking it.”

Hesitantly Sherlock began to explain his thought processes that had led to the tattoo design, barely noticing that he had relaxed until Danni gently interrupted to let him know where she was starting.

The pain was sharp and surprising at first especially directly over the scars, but the gentle music and the comfort he found in describing the decisions that had led to this moment helped immensely. For an indefinite amount of time the room was filled with the gentle buzz of the tattoo gun, Sherlock’s voice and Danni’s occasional interruption to let him know when she was moving to a new area.

“All done.”

 The announcement and sudden silence as the gun shut off jerked Sherlock out of his trance and he was startled to realise that he had almost dozed off.

“You ok there Sherlock?” Danni teased as she gathered the equipment with which to talk him through aftercare. Sherlock hummed in response as he dragged himself back to awareness. “Looked as though you dropped off for a bit.”

“I did.” Sherlock admitted. Shifting slightly, pushing past the residual twinges, he slowly sat and Danni held up her phone so he could see her photograph of the finished art.

It was beautiful.

Sherlock felt himself tearing up, the rising emotions were both consuming and comforting. What had once been a mass of ugly scars was now nothing less than a work of art.

“Thank you,” he choked, handing back the phone and wiping at his eyes, trying to get a grip back on his rioting emotions.

“You’re very welcome Sherlock,” Danni replied softly, not unmoved herself.

*

Two weeks later the redness had faded and the tattoo was mostly healed. Sherlock had kept it to himself so far, but now found that he wanted to share the symbol of his recovery with those who had helped him through the difficulties of the last eight months.

The dinner party was relaxed which helped calm Sherlock’s nerves considerably, with the dishes washed and put away he could put it off no longer.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Greg Lestrade started, “but why are we doing this Sherlock? We never do this sort of thing.” Sherlock looked around at the group, taking a steadying breath.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he tried and failed to stop his voice from breaking, “for helping me, I have something I want to share with you all.” His announcement was met with confused and bewildered stares, which quickly became more confused when he began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Sherlock,” Molly began but was silenced with a pleading look and he continued undressing in the resounding silence. Reaching the final button Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, turned so his back was facing them, and let the fabric drop.

Gasps met his ears as his four closest friends were faced with a stunningly beautiful tattoo.

“Oh Sherlock,” he heard Mrs. Hudson muttered, clearly trying to hold back tears, “it’s exquisite.”

“Grief Sherlock,” Lestrade exclaimed, sounding quite choked up himself, moving to stand to get a closer look. John quickly followed.

“I’m so proud of you,” Molly’s whisper was enough to make him open his eyes and glance behind him to face awed, loving, and tearful expressions. Molly was smiling through her tears, recognising the act of the tattoo for what it was, a symbol of his recovery and commitment. She always had been able to see through him. “So proud.”

“May I?” John’s question was hesitant as he raised a hand slowly towards Sherlock’s bare back. Bracing himself Sherlock nodded and barely flinched when John’s fingers met his skin, brushing over his inked name, tracing the scars the letters covered, finally realising the full extent of Sherlock’s sacrifice for him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, letting his hand drop before he moved to face his best friend and pulled Sherlock into a firm hug, “thank you, oh God, I’m so sorry Sherlock.”

Encompassed in John’s arms, Sherlock buried his face into the sandy hair and clung back, revelling in the feeling of safely and security that John exuded.

Finally, he was home.

* * *

 


End file.
